


like a secret blaze

by whiplash



Series: like frost, like fire [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lewis Snart's A+ Parenting, Masochism, Pre-Relationship, Pyromania, Sexism, also mick's stuck somewhere between asexual and snartsexual, and lisa's out there taking over the world while the boys are being stupid, coldwave, drunk post-heist shenanigans, len's FINE, mick's not dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Len keeps telling him to leave but Mick has selective hearing.</p><p>(Or five times Len tells Mick to leave and one time he asks him to stay.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1.**

“Get out of here,” Snart says. “Response time’s three minutes. Hurry, and you might still make it.”

Mick’s not sure what makes him hesitate, what makes him heft the bag of loot and consider the other man instead of legging it towards the nearest exit. Len Snart’s no friend of his, hardly more than a stranger for all that they’ve worked together for a while. Good planner, Mick will give him that. But far too mouthy. No wonder Jackson had pulled a gun on the guy mid-job. Although the way that Snart had returned fire, getting in a perfect head shot despite having taken a hit himself… now, _that_ had been impressive.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” Snart reminds him. He’s not looking good, skin pale and sweaty and his pupils blown wide. Blood’s soaked through his trousers, leaving the fabric wet and shiny. Mick’s no doctor but even he can tell when there’s too much of the stuff on the outside. Still, security will be here soon. Snart’s not going to bleed out. And even if he does, so what? People die all the time, and crooks sooner than most. Just last night Mick had been playing poker with Jackson. Now the guy’s lying crumpled by their feet – blood pooling around his head and nothing but emptiness in his eyes – and it only really matters because it’s messing up Mick's get-away-plan.

“Got a hot date waiting for you in Iron Heights?” Snart asks, voice caught somewhere between pain and lazy amusement. “If not, then I suggest you _move_.”

And just like that, Mick makes up his mind. Laughing out loud at his own madness, he shifts the loot so that the bag’s hanging over his bad shoulder. Ignoring the other man’s protests he then kneels down next to Snart and heaves him over the other shoulder. Mick’s knees creak when he gets to his feet but by now his blood has all but been replaced by adrenaline. He’s pretty sure that he'll make it down to the garage and then he can stuff Snart and the loot in the back of one of those fancy cars and drive straight past the men in blue.

Snart’s still talking but Mick’s not listening. This once, he’s the man with a plan.

 

**2.**

They’re all drunk. Len mostly on adrenaline after their heist, but Lisa’s all but emptied a bottle of red by herself and Mick’s put away enough beer that his bladder’s bursting. He stumbles past them towards the bathroom, taking the time to leer at Lisa’s short skirt and long legs. She leers right back, no doubt getting a kick out of riling up her big brother. 

Mick grins, kicking the door shut behind him. Doesn’t bother locking it, but just heads straight to business. And that’s when the problem presents itself.

What seems like yards of bandages have been wrapped around his hands, tied sloppily into a bow around each wrist. The thick layers of gauze hadn’t gotten in the way while he was drinking, his hands just big enough that he could still wrap them around the bottle. He hadn’t minded it much then – had even found it amusing when it happened, to be fussed over by the two siblings, Lisa’s touch feather-light while Len pinned him in place with just a look – but now he finds it bothers him. Enough so that he tears at the gauze with his teeth. 

He spits a mouthful of thread on the piss-stained floor, his breath hitching in relief when the last of the gauze falls away. Underneath it, his skin glistens with ointment. Closing his eyes Mick leans forward, resting his head against the mirror while he scrapes ragged nails over the raw, blistered skin. It settles him. Soothes him, like a mother’s lullaby or a lover’s touch.

“Took you long enough,” Lisa greets him when he finally returns. “We were just about to send in a rescue team.” 

“That your way of asking if I'm up for a quickie in the bathroom?” Mick asks, letting his eyes drag over her. She’s tucked into her brother’s side, hair tumbling over her shoulders and lips stained red with wine. Her skirt’s riding up, showing off a mess of scars on the inside of her left thigh. At his words she lifts a hand, folding down her thumb and three fingers.

“That’s my sister you’re talking about,” Len warns him, although his body’s still loose where he’s lounging on the couch. He’s still nursing the same bottle of beer that Mick had handed him when they arrived. The label's been peeled away neatly and even as he speaks, Len's scratching at the remaining glue with his thumbnail.   

“That _your_ way of asking if I'm up for a quickie in the bathroom?” Mick asks again, this time making a show of checking Len out. After all, the guy’s no worse looking than his sister. His words surprise a laugh out of Lisa and a snort from Len. 

“Get out of here,” the latter orders, but there's not heat to it. No cold fury either. Mick reaches for another beer before claiming the armchair for himself. The glass feels cool against his palms and he rolls it thoughtfully back and forth, enjoying the way that the label scratches at his raw nerve endings.

“Nah,” he says. “Think I’ll stay.”

**3.**

“I’m fine,” Len snaps through the closed door. “Go away.”

“Didn’t ask,” Mick assures him. “Don’t _care_. Now get out, or I’ll piss all over your paperwork.”

The bathroom door slams open and, for a moment, they’re face to face. Mick’s the first one to look away. He's seen Len in all kinds of moods before but this is the first time he's ever seen him looking _raw_. 

“How did the meeting with your old man go?” he asks, playing dumb.

“There’s a sink in the kitchen,” Len says, voice flat and eyes suddenly shuttered. “Next time, use that.” 

And then people act as if Mick’s the one raised by wolves.

**4.**

There’s a gun pointing at his head.  

“Get out,” Snart says. His voice doesn’t tremble, and nor does the gun. It never has, not once in all the years they've worked together.

Mick growls at the order, fingers clenched hard around his lighter as his gun's lost somewhere in the blaze behind them. He’s shaking hard with the force of the heat and the flames. If he moves, it’ll be to close the distance between them. The gun and Snart's near perfect aim be damned. Mick'll tear the man apart with his bare hands, grind his bones to dust under his boots and then burn what remains. Reduce that smug know-it-all to nothing but fatty black smears on the ground and dancing flakes of ash in the air. 

Time seems to be standing still. Snart’s not moving. Nor is Mick, though it costs him.

“Fine,” Snart finally drawls, his voice nasal and unpleasant. “Then _I’ll_ go.”

Mick’s throat too tight to speak. He just stares, eyeballs burning and hands trembling, as Len stomps out of the warehouse. It takes months for the fury to burn out of him.

And then longer still before Len thaws and searches him out, carrying gifts and promises.

**5.**

Mick trips into one of their safe houses, buzzed on top shelf whiskey and with first degree burns on his fingertips from playing with matches. When he rubs the raw skin against the stone wall, it hurts in the best way possible. Better than sex, he acknowledges as he lifts his hand to his mouth to gnaw at his thumb. Cheaper too. 

The air in the safe house smells of dust and gasoline. The single lightbulb does a poor job of chasing away the shadows, but he knows from memory that there’s a sagging couch pushed up against the south-side wall. They’d found it on the side of the street, him and Len, and dragged it back here. The way Mick remembers it, Lisa had sprayed it down with three cans of air freshener. And even afterwards she’d refused to sit on it, smiling sweetly as she claimed it still smelled like hobo ass.  

“Heh,” he snorts as he considers the mouth on that girl. Then, squinting into the shadows, he adds: “Huh.”

There’s already someone sleeping on the couch. _His_ couch. The one which he’d planned to crash on tonight. Tilting his head to the side, Mick runs down his list of option. There’s a knife in his boots. A gun taped underneath the table by the window and then yet another one inside the tank in the bathroom. Some lead pipes gather dust in the corner of the room. And that’s not even taking into account all the tools Mick’s gathered on his worktable over the years. His fingers twitch, imagining the weight of his welding torch in his hand.

“ _Wakey-wakey_ ,” he sing-songs, lips stretching into a wide grin. From his angle, Mick can make out bony knees, long legs and heavy boots. Not his size, which is a pity. Mick could do with a new pair of shoes.

“There’s not enough fat on you for you to burn very long,” he continues, kicking at the side of the couch to rouse the intruder. “But don’t worry. I’ll find some other way to make this night special for both of us.”

“Chill, Mick.”

The speaker doesn’t lift his head from where it’s burrowed into the couch so the voice comes out half-muffled, half-slurred. Even so, it’s familiar. Mick pauses, digging through his pockets. He discards the empty box of matches, fingers closing around his lighter instead. He steps closer to the couch, for once more interested in what the small flame’s illuminating than the fire itself.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he informs Len. Or rather, the back of Len’s head. Because, even though Len’s supposed to be doing time in Iron Heights for finally pulling the trigger on his old man, it’s definitely Len’s head. Mick would recognize that lumpy skull anywhere.

“Yet here I am,” comes the answer. “ _Asleep_. Now, go away.”

Mick considers this for a moment. But it’s late, he’s tired and also, somehow, Len’s back. All of a sudden his body’s not just buzzing with whiskey and fire, but also something else. Something _more_. Grinning to himself he bends forward to scoops up Len’s legs. The couch groans as Mick sinks down into the soft pillows and rearranges those long legs across his lap. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Len complains, but, although his legs twitch, he doesn’t try to kick Mick in the head. Deciding to take that as permission to stay, Mick shifts back until he’s comfortable. The couch’s not bad for a curb find.

“Shuddup,” Mick tells him, patting Len fondly on the knee. Then he yawns wide, allowing his eyelids to fall shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**+1**

After Carter’s funeral, he finds Len in the jumpship.

He’s sitting on the floor (again), one leg bent and tucked up against his chest and the other one stretched out in front of him. His head’s tilted backward at an awkward angle, showing off far too much throat. It would be the easiest thing in the world for someone – someone like Savage, with his cruel little knifes and sneaky ways – to slit that throat wide open. With that in mind Mick steps through the door, ducking his head just so, before slamming his palm against the locking mechanism.

“I’ll take your motivational speeches over Hunter’s any day,” he says by way of greeting. “If it’s me next time, make sure they hold a proper wake instead.”

Len smirks, then pats the ground next to him. It’s an invitation, and an unexpected one at that. But Mick shakes his head, gingerly sinking down into one of the chairs instead. Since his fight with Savage he has bruises on top of his bruises. The bastard’s left Mick with a necklace of purple fingerprints around the back of his neck. And Mick doesn’t even _like_ bruises. The pain’s slow and dull, nothing at all like the sharp, bright lick of fire.

“I’m too goddamn old to sit on the floor,” he growls when he notices that Len’s still smirking at him. “And so are you. You look ridiculous, only no one around here has the balls to tell you.”

“Except you,” Len drawls.

“Except for me,” Mick agrees. He spreads his legs, letting his knee bump into Len’s shoulder. Len pushes back and when the back-and-forth’s done, they’re somehow sitting closer to each other. For a long while they sit without speaking, Mick playing with his lighter while Len stares at his own hands.

“Next time we’ll just kill him,” Mick offers after the silence begins to wear at him. He can only take so much quiet before his skin begins to itch. “Not even your old man couldn't mess up dying.”

“They’ll split us up. Put Lisa in foster care. Can’t have that.”

Mick’s not dumb. He gets what Len’s not saying. Lewis Snart might have put a bomb in his own daughter’s head, but there were other lines he hadn’t crossed. Things he’d held himself above, and then other things that Len had been around to stop from happening. Better the devil you know, and all that shit.

“So,” he says, “we’ll-“

The words die in his mouth, turning to ash on his tongue. He sits still, frozen in place, as Len hurtles himself to his feet and charges at the opposite wall, as Len slams his open palm against the metal panelling before slumping forward, as Len’s breath catches and his head sinks between his shoulders to bare his neck. _Fuck._ Mick should get out of here. Seeing Len like this, it does things to him. Makes him want to burn shit. Or, even worse, say shit. Things which are sure to fuck things up between them when Len’s back to his normal, cold self.

“I’ll go,” Mick mutters, already on his feet and on his way to the door. He’s keeping his eyes down, humming tunelessly in his own head so that he won’t have to remember the sound of Len’s harsh breathing later. Only as he passes Len, strong fingers reach out to wrap around Mick’s wrist. And Len’s not looking at him. Not asking. Yet the meaning’s clear. _Stay_.

Mick hesitates for a moment, before twisting so that he’s leaning against the wall instead of facing the door. There’s some distance between them this time, but Mick does nothing to close it. Instead he reaches into his pocket for his lighter. Not to pull it out, but just to close his hand around it, the metal still warm and the very shape of it a familiar comfort.

“Wanna get drunk?” he asks when Len’s breathing finally evens out.

“Not quite my thing,” comes the answer. Mick considers the other man for a moment. He knows him already. Knows all of Len’s smirks and all the ways he’ll twist his voice to get a point across. From a drawl to a snarl in the blink of an eye, Lisa would say, and yeah, wasn’t that the truth. Knows the way he sprawls all over the couch like a cat, the way he drags his fries through ketchup and shoots a man right between the eyes when the situation calls for it. Really, Mick knows Len the same way that he knows his lighter. Well. _Almost._  

“Wanna fuck?” he hears himself offer. It’s what people do, isn’t it? They fuck frustration out of their bodies the same way Mick burns his away. Len moves then, turning his head so that the side of his face’s pressing against the wall and he’s looking straight at Mick. He looks _raw_ , his mouth a slash of angry red and his eyes as shiny as brass buttons.

“Not quite _your_ thing,” he says, voice warm and fond.

And then, before Mick can answer or even figure out if he’s disappointed or just relieved, Hunter summons them all to the flight deck.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I must like setting myself up for failure because I decided to write from Mick's pov. Wow. The less said about that the better.
> 
> Anyway, feedback's much appreciated :)


End file.
